On The Recliner
by Neezerbean
Summary: Sometimes, magic isn't the answer for everything. Sometimes you have so much emotion inside you, building and building that doing something 'mugglish' is necessary. Harry talks. And feels better for it.
1. Meeting Jane

**So this is the second fanfic I've written. It just randomly came to me and I have no idea where I'm going with it but it should be a few chapters long. **

**Disclaimer: Sorry, not Rowling. **

It was black. It was soft. It was sleek and shiny. It was his doorway to hell and it was his relief. It listened. It never judged. It was warm. It was familiar. It was his recliner. It was his recliner in the corner of the small room, which only had one other chair in it. And in that chair always sat one person, the only person he could trust with every single thought, feeling and opinion. He didn't know her full name. He only referred to her as Jane. Not Miss or Mrs. Just Jane. She said it encouraged familiarity in her workplace, just like she called him Harry and not Mr Potter.

In her room, he was not the boy-who-lived or The Chosen One. He was Harry, the client. And she was Jane, his listener. And Harry preferred it this way. No pre-judgements, no awestruck stares, no 'can i have your autograph Mr Potter?' Just Jane looking over her parchment at him, leaning back into her chair and asking him that question she had always asked him, 'Something on your mind, Harry?'

It had been 10 years since he had first required the service of Jane. Six months after the war, Harry was told quite firmly by his red-haired girlfriend Ginny, that he simply wasn't coping. He was getting up in the morning only to fall back into bed and stare at the ceiling like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. He had stared blearily at her and had asked,' what do you think i should do?'Putting memories in a pensive wasn't enough he realized. That just got rid of them, letting them leave the surface of his brain for a little while. But they didn't solve them, they didn't help him express his anger and grief and confusion over them. He needed some kind of release.

When Hermione had first suggested a therapist he had point blank refused. 'A therapist Hermione? Are you serious? I've always felt sorry for those poor sods really. Having to spend all day listening to other peoples problems when they've probably got some themselves. Who listens to the therapist Hermione?' Hermione had smacked him up-side the head for that one.

'Stop being so insufferably selfless Harry.' She had reprimanded him. 'Besides I've heard of this therapist who does her work from home, in Godrics Hollow. Apparently she's brilliant. Unorthodox but brilliant.'

And so Hermione had dragged him to Godrics Hollow, where so much had gone so wrong so early for Harry, and pushed him inside a rather small door into a dark corridor.

_'Hello?' called out Hermione uncertainly. _

_'Are you sure this is safe?' Harry hissed at her. _

_'Positive.' Hermione glared at him. _

_A cool, calm voice floated down the corridor towards them. 'Well, what do we have here?' the voice belonged to a tall woman dressed in a simple black dress with square glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. Harry noticed that she had quills sticking out of the messy bun wobbling precariously on the top of her head and that she had folded parchment in the pocket of her blazer. She was dressed as a muggle but with wizard accessories, Harry thought amused. _

_Before Harry could speak she pierced him with a look, worthy of McGonagal. 'I do not care for pleasantries Mr Potter. So you shall call me Jane and I shall call you Harry, as if we were old friends. Do come into my room. Miss Granger you will not be needed.' And she turned swiftly and disappeared through a doorway. Hermione placed her hand on Harry's shoulder reassuringly and left, leaving Harry to nervously follow the dragon-like woman. He entered the small dingy room. There was the black recliner. And there she was sat in the chair, quill in hand, peering over her parchment. 'Something on your mind, Harry?'_


	2. The Dursleys

**Please review. Disclaimer : not Rowling**

Harry perched nervously on the recliner, staring about the room for any potential threats. Eventually his eyes settled on the dragon lady. Jane, he amended in his mind. She had one eyebrow raised and it was only then that he remembered that she had asked a question.

'Oh, uh, well i don't know where to start.' Harry mumbled.

'I believe the beginning would be the most sensible place.' She said from behind her parchment. He didn't know whether she was smiling or not.

The beginning. What constituted as the beginning of his life? What he remembered or what he'd been told? His parents or the Dursleys? Did he really want to divulge this information about either of them to this stranger?

'Vernon Dursley.' Said Jane suddenly. 'Portly man. Proud. A certain fetish for normality.'

'How do you know?' Harry blurted, staring incredulously at this woman.

She ignored his question. 'Tell me about him, Harry. '

Harry continued to stare at her, until he finally found his voice. 'Well, he was my uncle. And you're right he is a very portly, proud man. He liked normality though I can't think for the life of me why.'

'Perhaps it's a sense of familiarity Harry? It's like his bubble of safety. I dare say his patronus would be a boring tie.'

Harry snorted. 'That sounds about right. Anyway, he didn't like me, even when i was a kid. Because i was different from him. Because i was a freak.' Harry spat contemptuously. 'I was corrupting his perfect little life, ruining it all for him just by existing. Just for being Harry.'

Jane glanced over her parchment at Harry, the quill going still in her hand. 'How would you feel Harry, if you were a muggle and suddenly you found out that there were people who could make things explode at will, could make things zoom about, could brew glory and could cause death? If all the fairy stories you were told as a child were real, but no longer as innocent as you first thought? Would you not be afraid?'

'Of course i would be! Wait... are you trying to make me feel sorry for my Uncle Vernon?!' Harry spluttered.

Jane tutted. 'Not to feel sorry for him but to understand him. And then perhaps you can let these feelings of hatred rest.'

'I don't think understanding him will make me feel forgiving.'

Jane put down her parchment. She looked directly at Harry. 'Did you forgive Voldemort?' she said quietly.

Harry just gaped open mouthed at her. 'What the hell are you trying to make me say?'

'I do not make my clients say anything. What they say is of their own accord. So i ask you again. Did you forgive Voldemort?'

'Of course not!'

'But you understood him?' Jane leaned forward.

'Yes.' Harry whispered.

'Did that ease any of your hatred for Voldemort, Harry?'

'Some.'

'Then the same can be said for your Uncle Vernon. You won't forgive him. But you'll hate him a little less. Because you'll understand him.' she leaned back into her chair and picked up her parchment again.

'You are batshit crazy.' Harry said, aghast.

This time she truly smiled. 'And it is what i'm most proud of. Shall we continue?'

'Continue?' Harry said stupidly.

'Petunia. The nosy, spiteful, bitter aunt.'

'Oh her. I suppose you're going to try and make me understand her too? She pretended she didn't have a sister. All because she was a witch. She renounced her own sister, her own flesh and blood, for her quest for normality. I've wondered since, whether she ever regretted it. But she's never given me any inclination to believe so.' Harry clenched his hands in anger, his knuckles white.

'Imagine if you were truly Ron Weasleys brother. Imagine if he was a wizard and you were not. He's going off to this wonderful school, to do all these wonderful things and he's leaving you behind. He has this whole world you cannot enter. He can do things easier than you can and you have to work hard to do them. All he needs to do is flick a stick. Can you see how jealousy would arise between you two?'

'Maybe.' Harry said cautiously, preparing to be tricked into to saying something he really didn't want to.

'I highly suspect it hurt your aunt to look at you, you know. Because you have her eyes. Lily's eyes. Perhaps, rather than waiting for her to admit it, you should ask her if she has any regrets.'

Harry couldn't help himself. He was staring at her again. This woman was driving him insane, causing him to review his entire mind set on his entire life. Forcing him to understand his dratted relatives, making him feel sorry for them. Her words, her unarguable reasoning was worming its way into his brain and he couldn't stop it. She was making him stop and wipe the slate clean, making him form his thoughts anew. Hermione was right about one thing. She was unorthodox. He didn't know about brilliant. Bloody crazy though.

'Harry, whatever you may believe, I'm not twisting your thoughts. They were always there. I'm just drawing them out.' She said calmly as though she had read his mind. She folded the parchment back up, placed the quill in her black hair and stood. 'So Harry, next week?'

'Are we finished?'

'Oh no Harry.' She said with a sly smile. 'I believe we've only just scratched the surface.'


	3. Meeting in Pyjamas

'She was bloody mental Hermione, I am not going back there again!' Said Harry stubbornly.

Hermione huffed and pierced him with a look. 'Why ever not Harry?'

'She completely twisted everything I was thinking, everything I've ever thought. She was worse than Skeeter!'

'Oh now I _know _you're exaggerating.' Hermione said with a hint of a smile on her lips.

'It didn't help at all. A complete waste of time.' Harry said crossing his arms, daring Hermione to contradict him.

'Fine.' She simply said.

'And don't even think...wait. what?' Harry's eyes widened.

'Fine. It didn't help. We'll find something else.' she said gently.

Harry had never known Hermione back down so easily. 'Yeah. Okay then.' He said lamely.

**Please read and review. I am not J. . She owns all the characters. I'm just picking their brains. **

He woke gasping, clutching at his sheets. Sweat trickling off his nose, drenched his hair. Breathing shallowly he tried to remember what had caused him to feel this way. Glassy eyes and cold, lifeless hands. An unyielding pain. Gravestones. A gleam of silver. Glassy eyes. Glassy eyes. GLASSY EYES. His breathing quickened again. Cedric Diggory. His face had haunted him since 4th year. The first dead body he had truly seen, the first he actually remembered. The cause of him being able to see thestrals. Slowly Harry got up and sat on the edge of his bed, running his hand through his hair. Just a dream Harry, just a dream, he thought to himself.

But it wasn't just a dream. It was a memory. No one had asked him how he had felt, coming back with that dead body. No, he was just dragged off by a psychopathic murderer. He had no idea why such strong emotions were invoked by Cedric's memory because no one had ever bloody asked him. No one had listened. Listened... Harry's head snapped up suddenly.

Without a second thought he had apparated to Godric's Hollow. Wearily he knocked on the door. Jane opened the door, dressed in a deep purple dressing gown and looked down at him in mild surprise. Soundlessly she turned, leaving the door open. Harry followed her, suddenly realizing he was still in pyjamas. But Jane made no comment on his attire. Instead she settled herself on her chair and he perched on the recliner.

'Something on your mind, Harry?'


End file.
